


amor vincit omnia

by ladyregnant



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Arranged Marriage, Comfort/Angst, Cousin Incest, F/M, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Nightmares, North is its own Sovereign state, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Post S7, Pregnancy, Rating May Change, References to Depression, Slow Build, Tropes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-09 22:46:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12285846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyregnant/pseuds/ladyregnant
Summary: After the fall, Sansa Stark wakes up to a new world whose origins she can't remember.





	1. Prologue

The first thing Sansa Stark woke up to was the high stone ceiling of her parent’s room. It took a moment for her sleep-muddled mind to become fully aware as to why.

She was the Lady of Winterfell now. How she wished so desperately that was not the case. The pounding headache and the general feeling of discomfort in her lower half told her she had been recently injured, of that much she was certain. Though she had no recollection of the incident that led her here. The sunlight streaming through the windows told her it was way past early morning. The bed covers were different - softer, and smelt clean. The room did not look so bare as it had been when she first took ownership of it, per Jon's request that she belonged in this room more than him. She could see Jon's chainmail and sword hung up in the corner, and other trinkets in the room that she knew instinctively to be hers, but could not remember ever attaining them.

Beside the bed in a chair, laid a sleeping Jon Snow. Judging by the rumpled state of his clothes, he must have slept here beside her all night. She felt oddly touched. Growing up they had never been particularly close. But now they were running Winterfell together. They needed to rely on each other more than they ever had to as children.

“Jon?” she said quietly, her voice sounding strange to her own ears. Her throat felt awfully parched.

Despite the soft-spoken tone of her voice, Jon instantly awoke, his reflexes lightning fast as he sat up, and she jumped slightly when his hand reached out to grasp hers over the bed covers she was under. His thumb swiped gently over her knuckles, and she stiffened.

Jon must have noticed this, because his gaze was one of palpable concern.

“How are you feeling?” he asked lowly, his eyes wide with an emotion she could not name.

“May I have some water?” she asked, licking her lips then. She could taste the metallic tang of blood from how cracked they were. It seemed impossible one night of heavy drinking could have done this to her.

Jon stood up to cross the room to the small table where a water pitcher and several goblet cups were. He poured her one and walked back, handing it to her. She gave him a grateful smile before taking it, practically swallowing it down in one gulp. She was mindful how penetrating his gaze was on her, and she found it peculiar. Never before had Jon’s concern felt so intense to her as it did now. Oh, she knew before the battle with Ramsay he was furious on her behalf.

But they were alone now. And clearly out of danger and any other circumstances that required him to feel obligated to protect her.

“Thank you,” she said softly, looking up at him.

“You scared me,” Jon told her, his face still an unreadable mask to her. “One moment you were animated and talking at dinner, and the next you just fainted. If Sam had not been visiting, it would have been days before a certifiedmaestercould've come – "

“Sam?” she interjected, not familiar with that name. Perhaps it was the name of one of his men who fought beside him in battle.

Jon continued as if he had not heard her. He sat back down beside her, reaching for her hand again; this time bringing it up to his mouth as he kissed her palm. “The maester says you’re fine. Said you just need bed rest for the next few days.”

She pulled her hand out of his grasp, scandalized by his actions, and he looked taken aback.

“Jon, what are you doing?” she gasped.

Jon’s expression crumpled, as if finally comprehending why she was looking at him with such distress.

“Sansa, what’s the last thing you remember?”

She closed her eyes, trying to picture how she ended up in this bed, with a wary Jon Snow staring at her with a bated breath for her answer.

But she could not. All she could remember was –

“We just won back Winterfell. After Petyr-," she stumbled, quickly correcting herself, " _Lord Baelish_ arrived with the Knights of the Vale.” Then she finished more confidently, “I fed Ramsay Bolton to his dogs, and we had a feast in the hall to celebrate. I may have drunk too much wine.” At least she assumed she had, for it certainly would explain the pounding headache she had.

Jon’s stoic expression gave nothing away, except a tiny part of her said differently, unbidden.  _You’ve wounded him; you’ve always treated him terribly, even as children_. For the life of her; she had no idea what she had done to him recently to have him give her such an openly pained look now.

Then the door banged open, interrupting Jon’s reply. 

Despite her short hair and lanky figure wearing a style more suited for a male than a woman, it was indisputable who exactly Sansa was staring at in the doorway.

Her stomach lurched.


	2. Queen of the North

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for the kudos/bookmarks/views! this is my first GoT fanfic and writing this ship so I appreciate it so much. <3 I took the liberty of adding more tags, so please heed those.

Arya was the one who ended up summarizing the last three years she could not remember, after Sansa nearly hyperventilated at the sight of her sister whom she thought was dead suddenly appearing in the doorway. Jon whispered something to Arya she could not make out before he departed the chamber, leaving the Stark sisters alone. One of which thought this was their first reunion.

Jon was not simply in her bedchambers to look after her – Jon was in his _own_ bedchambers looking over his wife. _Her_.

They were married. He was the king of the North and she the queen. Which made no sense, but Arya explained that Daenerys Targaryen had permitted the sovereignty of the North as long as certain conditions were met. And apparently, she and Jon had agreed to them to secure their alliance and peace with the silver-haired Queen.

Her trueborn cousin. Her husband.

And according to maester Samwell Tarly; the father of her unborn child. She was pregnant. Evidently not far along enough, given her stomach was not distended yet. She kept a hand on her still-flat stomach, trying to convince herself there was a baby in there.

A baby she could not remember making with a husband she could not remember marrying. But she had; she had for the sake of peace and for duty. Arya said she had been reluctant but in the end somehow convinced Jon to go through the marriage ceremony. 

And Jon, poor Jon. To be married to her. A woman who grew up with him as a sister and not a cousin. She still could not believe this entire game of thrones had begun with a dead aunt she had never met and a silver-haired prince whom had fallen in love with each other despite him already having a wife and children. And her _father_! Her own kin had known and sacrificed his own honor in order to fulfill his sister’s last dying wish. 

To protect his sister's son. The trueborn heir to the throne. Arya had said over and over that Jon did not want the throne, that even his own Aunt had said it was rightfully his and tried to convince him to take it with her.

“And did it work out? Is there really peace? Is…Jon happy? Am I?” she implored her sister, her mind still reeling from disbelief but Arya was real, wasn’t she? She looked different; older. Hardened, but she could not deny it was her trueborn sister. This was no dream. Arya would always tell her the truth, no matter how harsh and un-pretty. Arya never spared her feelings as children and would not do so now.

Arya’s mouth twitched into a sardonic smile. “Happy? Depends on your definition. You used to tell me as children you always dreamt of marrying a prince and having several children. Now though, I’m not sure. You and Jon are a formidable force together. You’re the brains and politician and he’s the brilliant military strategist and leader everyone wants to follow. You’re both in sync and the North has flourished because of it. You enjoy _that_. You’re a far more capable Queen than I ever would’ve thought.”

Sansa nodded, inwardly knowing after all she had endured, she no doubt would not have been very keen to be married again. In hindsight, it was the obvious smart choice. She could remain in her home without fear of a man taking it from her again and tarnishing it.

She wondered if Jon only came to her bedchamber to help procreate an heir. Perhaps his worry was more for the babe than her. After all, didn’t all Kings eventually want an heir? Surely Jon was no different. No doubt she had even played into that so he would leave her alone in the marriage bed once she conceived.

She wondered why that thought seemed so vile to her. But she knew it to be true. Arya was right – she was not that naïve silly little girl anymore. She knew how the world worked now and played her knowledge to her favor.

The door opened again, and Jon announced his presence respectfully before fully entering. She turned around, facing her husband. Her cousin whom she once believed to be her bastard brother.

“Sam would like to examine you, if that’s alright,” he asked her, and she nodded stiffly. The babe, of course. He needed reassurance the babe was alright; the sole reason why they were married in the first place.

“Of course, my lord,” she said, and Jon gave her an uncomfortable look and she instantly wondered if she had done something wrong.

Before she could bring it into question, a portly man dressed in traditional master garb appeared, evidently waiting for his king’s signal to enter. Arya, she noticed, had quietly disappeared without saying a customary goodbye.

Samwell Tarly, he introduced himself, had served with Jon in the Night’s Watch and since had been a good friend to Jon. She did as he asked and laid down on the bed, the pillows propped behind her as support as he opened his bag and listened to her stomach through an instrument she recalled seeing once before when her mother had been pregnant with her baby brother Rickon. It was so he could listen to the baby’s heartbeat.

He told them both the heartbeat was strong. “You’re perfectly healthy, my highness. Although I’m afraid I don’t know much about how long it could take for your memory to come back fully, but I’ve been reading medical journals that say it is still possible at this point in time.”

“So, I _might_ regain my memory?” she tentatively asked.

“I wish I could give you a definite answer,” Sam replied, fixing her a sympathetic glance before standing up and making eye contact with Jon who was the only one standing at the opposite side of the room during the examination.

“I recommend you keep to the same routine you had before you fell. Medical journals say it may help stimulate your memories,” Sam said, and he seemed to be talking to Jon more than her. For she had no idea what her ‘normal routine’ was anymore.

“Thank you,” Jon finally spoke, his face still stoic yet she somehow knew he was simply lost in his own thoughts. “I’ll be sure to do that.”

Sam seemed to take that as his cue to depart, and he gave her a respectful bow before gathering his things and leaving the room, closing the door behind him.

Sansa looked up at Jon, searching for any inkling of what he was thinking. Jon was worried, of course. He always seemed to wear that same brooding mask whenever he was worried or when something went awry. She had learned after reuniting with him at the Wall how he never said much when he was worried. He would simply find a spot to contemplate in solitude.

“Jon, please look at me,” she requested softly.

He turned his gaze to her. She patted the spot on the bed beside her, and he sat down to listen to her.

“Arya told me what she could,” she started quietly, “about the war with the white walkers and Queen Cersei eventually being killed by Ser Jaime. And how you’re the trueborn son of my Aunt Lyanna and Rhaeger Targaryen. Of course, she could tell me nothing about our marriage. Only that you’re my trueborn cousin and we’ve been married a little over two years. Are you…do you regret it? Do I? I have to know, because now there’s…” A baby, she finished silently in her head. She had to know if she was about to bring an innocent baby into a loveless marriage or not. She knew Jon was not a cruel man, but nonetheless she had to know the circumstances surrounding their baby’s conception.

“You’ve wanted this for a long while,” Jon finally answered. “To the point you were stressing yourself sick over it. I told you there would be plenty of time for babies, that we’re both still young but you insisted you weren't getting any younger.”

That was true. She was twenty-one now. Already two years older than her mother had been when she had had Robb. The thought of her dear brother Robb made her eyes prickle.

“You really don’t remember?” Jon asked her softly. She shook her head.

“I’m sorry, I don’t,” she admitted, wiping her unshed tears. “I don’t know what to believe anymore, Jon. I woke up married and pregnant with a man whom I once believed to be my half-brother. His Aunt is the Queen of the sev-now _six_ kingdoms. Arya is alive and an assassin and my bodyguard apparently. It sounds so…”

“Unbelievable,” Jon supplied for her. He gave her a sad smile.

She let out a small, half wet laugh. “Yes! It sounds like something out of a terrible novel that quickly changed plot in the middle. I can’t believe father never told us the truth or mother. I wish so terribly I could ask him _why_.”

“Aye,” Jon said, his gaze faraway, seemingly past her. “I wondered that same thing for months on end and got nowhere. What’s done is done. We both know why even if it’s hard to accept.”

“And Bran? Is it true? He left and forsake his name?”

“He visits,” Jon reassured her, and she felt comforted by the hand he put on her shoulder, a gesture that he had done before and that was not as uncomfortable as him kissing her palm. “And occasionally sends a raven telling us everything is going to be fine. “

“Has he been right so far?” she asked, dreadful of the answer but curious all the same.

Jon nodded. “So far.”

“No more white walkers or mad kings or queens?”

“Sansa, I swore nobody would ever hurt you again,” Jon said firmly, “you’re the Queen of the North. Trust me when I say nobody would ever dare hurt you and live to tell it.”

“Nobody can protect anybody- "

Jon nodded. “Aye, I know. Which is why you made me teach you to sword fight the first year of our marriage.”

She gasped. “I did _what_?”

He laughed, his eyes dancing with mirth. It was peculiar to see him happy, but certainly not unwelcome to witness.

“Aye, you did,” he confirmed, “You demanded it in fact.”

“Tell me about it, please.”


	3. Interlude: Making amends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
>   
> 

The first time she lifted a sword, she nearly toppled over from its weight. She had not expected it. Jon had purposefully given her a training sword; more lightweight and good for beginners he had told her.

 

She did not need to turn around to know the stifled laughter behind her came from her newly-wedded and lawful husband. She knew some in the North still judged their union as improper, for they had grown up believing to be half-siblings. They had been married a little over a fortnight, and still she was not used to it. Sans their wedding day, they still acted towards each other as they did before. 

 

For whatever reason, this morning Jon had finally given into her cajoling to train her on a sword. Arya and Brienne had both thought it was a sound idea – Jon could not always be around, and Sansa never wanted to be depend on anyone for her protection.

 

“First you need to grip the pommel with your dominant hand,” Jon said, walking up behind her and placing his hand over her left forearm, his other hand directing her right hand and placing it in a tight grip towards the bottom of the sword. Then he guided her left hand in a looser grip above her right on the handle, and instantly she felt as if the sword were not as heavy.

 

“I got it,” she said when he did not let go right away, and Jon immediately backed away, examining her stance from the side. She felt his penetrating gaze and wondered how absurd she must have looked to him – still in her morning dress holding a sword in their solar; their breakfast cold and long forgotten by this impromptu lesson. Arya earlier had offered to give her a pair of trousers and tunic, like she often wore when sparring. But Sansa had insisted she learn this way. She was not her sister – more likely she would be in a dress if she ever truly needed a sword.

 

“How do I look?” she asked him, lifting and angling her arms simultaneously in a proper fighting pose she had seen her sister and Brienne taken many times before.

 

Jon’s face gave nothing away, except for his eyes visibly showed his quiet amusement. “Aye, I definitely would give pause if I saw you, which is good. You’ll have the advantage of surprise.”

 

She frowned, knowing he was only paying her that compliment because he was being kind. “Please don’t treat me like I’m delicate. I want to _train_ , Jon. Act as if I were one of your new soldiers. Don’t be lenient.”

 

"I know you're not," Jon said softly, and for the first time, she realized if this was ever going to work between them, she needed to forgive him and let go of the past. But it was difficult not to feel slighted, when every man in her young life had let her down in some form or other. But marriage was more than just a political alliance of peace and prosperity like theirs was. Their marriage symbolized forgiveness and new beginnings. Jon and she were the stewards of creating their new kingdom, together. 

 

"Promise me you will _never_ treat me that way," she said, her blue eyes meeting his dark ones. 

* * *

 


	4. Deconstruction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yup this is where it goes downhill and reality sinks in for Sansa.  
> forewarning i guess?  
> disclaimer i still don't know what i'm doing in this fandom tbh. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

The first time Sansa ventured outside her chambers, she was startled to see how much of the home she remembered had changed. Jon and Arya flanked her as they took her around most of the castle, some of which was off limits due to the heavy damage it had sustained (Arya told her most of it had been from the White Walkers that had attacked, and one of the dragons had been struck down right in the middle of Winterfell, causing a calamity affect) and was still being rebuilt. Most of the castle outward walls laid in rumble, and from her favorite spot on the highest point on the castle rooftop, she found herself horrified at the sight of how much destruction had been done to the town right outside Winterfell.

 

Jon, sensing her discomfort, told her Winterfell would have never survived had it not been for her.

 

“How?” she asked, unable to see how _she_ could have done anything. She was no warrior.

 

“It was thanks to your planning that our armies did not starve when we were cut off by the White Walkers for days,” Jon told her, then added, “or freeze to death in their armor.”

 

She tried to remember it, but could not and frowned. Jon guided her down the familiar path of the stairs leading down to where the stables were located. People were working and it was strange how they stopped and smiled and greeted her as she passed by. They were simply acknowledging her presence as their Queen and she felt a strange déjà vu of when she was a little girl watching all the townspeople greet her mother and father fondly whenever they went out together in public.

 

“Are you okay?” Jon asked her, pulling her away from her nostalgia.

 

“Sorry, just thinking to myself,” she murmured, then turned her full attention to Jon, “Can we go to the Godswood forest?”

 

Arya made a noise from behind them, and Sansa quickly turned her head to her sister who had been quiet throughout this journey until now.

 

“I meant to tell you earlier,” Arya began, and Sansa noted she truly did look contrite, “there was a fire in the forest.”

 

Sansa turned to Jon, as if daring him to refute her statement.

 

Arya continued, seeing Sansa’s reaction. “It’s still there, just, it’s not the same as you may have remembered...”

 

**

 

It looked charred and dirty, she thought when she finally came upon the ancient heart tree that had been there for decades. It still kept its blood red leaves except now it looked ominous with its black bark. Sansa walked closer, laying a hand next to the face in the blackened tree truck. It felt oddly warm to the touch despite the cold environment it was in.

 

Dragon’s fire, she thought vaguely.

 

Arya and Jon had reluctantly let her go alone, per her request that she needed her solitude to pray. They were right outside the forest. She thought of the memories this tree must have held, of her mother and father, and her father’s siblings and his parents, and of her as a little girl not so long ago. And of a battle she could not remember.

 

The sound of twigs cracking interrupted her musings, and she turned, expecting to see Jon or Arya but instead in front of her was an enormous white dire wolf with red eyes. Ghost.

 

As if sensing her hesitance, Ghost slowly walked to her where she sat under the tree, laying his snout in her lap, exerting a big exhale. She smiled, scratching the back of Ghost’s ears. Ghost nuzzled at her hand, sniffing, familiarizing himself with her scent. His nose then immediately pushed against her stomach, and Sansa jumped. She wondered if Ghost could somehow sense her condition.

 

“At least you’re still here, the same as ever,” she told him.

 

She stood up to find Jon and her sister, and Ghost followed closely at her heels. They were talking quietly, and she knew about her for they stopped when they saw her approach. Jon’s face broke into a smile when he saw Ghost beside her, and he bent down to pet the dire wolf.

 

“He hasn’t been outside the castle grounds in days, he’s more of your guard dog nowadays,” Jon said fondly, still bent down, his hands stroking Ghost’s fur. “He sometimes even sleeps on the bed and kicks me off.”

 

Sansa could not help but think up that image in her head, though it was still slightly awkward how open Jon could admit they shared a bed.

 

For sleeping, of course, her mind chastised her. And other things as well, as her pregnancy was proof of that. She felt herself turn red and Arya caught it and gave a smirk, before sputtering off into a laughing spree much to her chagrin.

 

“Arya!” Sansa exclaimed. Arya ran off ahead of them, claiming she needed to go practice spurring.

 

Jon looked confused. Sansa sighed, still annoyed that her sister could be as prone to laughing inappropriately at her blushing.

 

“You don’t need to escort me you know,” Sansa said. Jon stood up and gave her a peculiar look.

 

“I want to,” he said, then asked quietly, “unless you prefer me to be elsewhere. I can sleep in another room too if you want tonight – “

 

“No,” Sansa said quickly, her stomach lurching again. Jon was an honorable man, after all. “I trust you. I…I think Sam’s right. We shouldn’t change things, it might help if we continue as normal, as much as we can.”

 

* * *

 

As promised, Jon kept to their usual routine. He slept beside her (on top of the covers). He woke up always before her in the mornings, and in the evenings, they would share a meal in the solar alone. Jon would catch her up on his daily activities of running the North. She would give him a pointed look whenever he brought up a name she did not know and he would stumble and go into the details surrounding how they met and their relationship. Over time Sansa could begin to recognize certain names more than others.

 

Only his most trusted advisors knew of her memory loss. They did not want everyone in their kingdom to be alarmed. Ser Davos seemed to disagree with them not telling Queen Daenerys, but when Jon said no, he simply let it go. Sansa wanted to ask how exactly his relationship with the Queen of the Six Kingdoms worked, with her being his Aunt and once turning down the throne so she could have it. For some reason she could not, a small part of telling her not to pry.

 

She wondered if it was because she had already asked it, or because at one point in time she already knew the answer and did not like it.

 

Overall, she felt restless; unused to the feeling of serenity when for the past years all she had known were misery and sorrow.  Every morning felt like she was in a hazy dream. In the mornings in the great hall she sat and listened to her people, going over issues that needed resolving. Jon said he often let her do it alone, claiming she was better at it than him. He asked her if she wanted him to attend, but she had been adamant to do it herself like before. She wanted to feel useful. It was only then, when she fully occupied in heated debates and coming up with solutions, that she did not dwell.

 

Then there was the baby. While she still could not tell she was with child, she begun to pick up on certain smells that left her feeling nauseous more than others. And noticed how easily she felt tired in the afternoons even after full night’s rest. Maester Tarly told her this was normal and it eased her worry.

 

She mostly kept to her chambers, or her favorite spot outside where she had the whole view of the North in front of her as she practiced her needlework in hopes of eventually developing inspiration to make something for the baby. If only to convince herself this, in fact was her life. A Queen, a married woman with child. Not so long ago it had been something she had dreamt about, and now that she was living it, she did not see the appeal to it anymore.

 

Of course, she kept this to herself, unsure if this was simply a temporary despondent feeling. She felt hopeful once her memory returned, things would be better. She was comforted by the idea that Jon was every bit of an honorable, brave husband any lady wife would be happy to have. He never acted untoward towards her, and seemed to always listen to her input about the daily running of the North. It pleased her to learn that Arya’s observations had been correct in her assessment – Jon would let her take the lead when it came to pleasing the Lords and dealing with their demands, and she let him work on training up their army. Jon stressed even with no wars, it was important they kept a strong force and she agreed. Maintaining peace required training their army back up to prevent future sabotages and building relationships. Jon trained and she built relationships.

 

A fortnight later she begun to feel more confident in her role as Queen of Winterfell, yet still despondent of her place in regard to her relationship with Jon and her upcoming role as a mother. She could tell he was purposefully giving her space, and while she appreciated it, she also had no idea how she was supposed to be behaving when he was around her. There were times when she would catch him staring at her with pensive face. And other times when he treated her like she remembered. He never touched her, and always seemed mindful to keep space even while they slept. She had been so wrapped up in her own sense of loss of her memories she initially gave no regards to how Jon must be dealing with this. He told her things whenever she asked, but even she could tell he was choosing not to tell her certain things.

 

She had just finished her nightly bath and was donning her robe when Jon entered their shared chambers earlier than usual. He paused when he saw her half-dressed. She immediately felt self-conscious, thinking of her scars before realizing he must have seen them before.  She felt uncomfortable at the thought, quickly finishing tying her night dress together to cover herself. Jon had yet to disturb her this early before bed. She wondered if something had gone awry.

 

“Sorry, I should’ve knocked."

 

“It's fine,” she said, “we’re married, Jon. We share a marriage bed, surely it is nothing you have not seen before.”

 

Jon did not respond to her bold statement, turning around to change out of his clothes behind the changing wall. She felt nervous as she watched his silhouette by her chair near the vanity table. She suddenly remembered this familiar setting on their wedding night. He had changed first for her sake – for Ramsay always insisted she bare herself first. She never told Jon that out loud, but he must’ve sensed her fright, and offered to disrobe first. Somehow Jon being unclad first soothed her and made it much easier for her to do the same. When Jon reappeared from the changing wall in his night clothes, she felt a twinge of disappointment and her stomach fluttered. She felt strange. She took her seat in front of her vanity, distracting herself by brushing her hair out of its intricate braids and not dwelling if her thoughts were truly a memory or her own shameful imagination.

 

By the time she finished, Jon had already settled on top of the covers and she lifted the covers on her side before sliding under them after extinguishing the last candle.

 

“Sansa?” Jon said softly, his voice barely more than a whisper.

 

Sansa wondered if she closed her eyes, if she would wake up and everything would be back to normal. Whatever normal was for her now. This should be a dream come true. She wasn’t being tortured anymore. She was safe, here, back in her home at Winterfell that she had prayed every night to return to. She could even sense the sleeping form of Ghost at the foot of the bed.

 

“Yes?” she replied.

 

“Are you alright? You’ve been…quieter than usual the past few days.”

 

Sansa closed her eyes. How foolish of her to think Jon could not have picked up on her mood. They shared a bed.

 

Much more than that, her mind supplied, and her hand drifted to her stomach.

 

“I’m fine,” she whispered, turning to her side, her back to him. She let out a deep shuddering breath she had not realized she had been holding.

 

Stupid stupid girl, she thought furiously to herself. He’s not going to shun you if you tell him how you feel.

 

How exactly does one tell her King and husband she does not want this?

 

* * *

 

The sound of the baby crying woke her. She rubbed her eyes, sitting up in bed. Beside her Jon turned around and murmured he could help but she told him to go back to sleep. Jon had a long trip ahead of him back to King’s Landing in the morning.

 

 

She walked to the crib and picked up their child. The moment she put her babe in her arms, the cries lessened. She rocked back and forth, singing a soft song her own mother once sang to her whenever she had been sick. A song of love and celebration.

 

Slowly her babe quieted, and when she looked down in her arms, all she could see was glowing icy blue eyes staring at her.

 


	5. lull before the storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> forewarning: jonsa feels(?)  
> and most serious question: should the baby be a boy or girl? i haven't decided yet and want to hear my readers thoughts.

_Sansa did not bother to knock when she walked into Jon’s chambers, for at a moment such as this; propriety was the least of her concerns._

_Jon was leaving Winterfell. After he had fought and won it back for her from Ramsay Bolton. After he had given it back to her after nearly dying to save it from the army of the dead and Cersei Lannister’s forces._

_Jon was leaving her._

_His back was her when she entered, already clothed in his outdoor winter garb, attaching his sword to his belt. He fixed her a wary look when he saw her in his chambers unannounced._

_“You’re leaving.” she stated, unable to keep the emotion out of her tone. She wanted to cry, she wanted to scream and yell and throw a childish tantrum._

_“Aye,” Jon told her, his eyes sober. “I’m tired of fighting, Sansa. It’s best if I just leave.”_

_He had said those words to her before, when she had begged him to take back Winterfell with her._

_“I know,” she whispered, walking up to him, close enough she could still see how thin he looked. She had to beg him to eat, for her. To keep his strength up._

_He did it for her. He always did what she asked._

_“I know you’re tired, but I can’t do this alone,” she whispered. “I can’t, Jon. The North needs you.”_

_“The North does not want a Targaryen in their midst,” Jon told her angrily. She winced, knowing the newfound knowledge he was not Eddard Stark’s son still wounded him. His entire life had been built on a lie._

_“You are also still a Stark,” she said firmly, grasping his wrist, forcing him to look at her. “You still belong in the North, Jon, no matter who your father was. You belong here.” With me._

_“Sansa – “_

_“Shut up and let me finish,” she demanded, then gentled her tone, “I cannot rule alone, not without fear I will have to eventually marry. I will still be vulnerable without a husband or future heirs. An unwed Queen is a dangerous proposition for a new kingdom. I don’t have a dragon like Daenerys does, or a large militia at my disposal to protect me from usurpation. My crown is useless without those things, Jon.”_

_Jon said nothing, but the clenching of his jaw told her he understood._

_“Unfortunately, even though we won this war, it does not mean people won’t be people and fall back to what they always do. I need you to marry me to protect me.”_

_Jon’s eyes widened._

_She pushed through, averting her gaze, not wanting to see his revulsion. “I know it’s not proper, since we grew up thinking each other as half-siblings. But I trust you, Jon. I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather have as my King beside me, and as my husband.”_

_Sansa prayed he would not ridicule her._

_Jon grasped her shoulders, forcing her gaze upon him. He looked defeated, and so, so sorrowful. She knew this was asking a lot, especially after everything he had been through._

_“Sansa, please think of what you’re asking. I could never forgive myself if I felt you truly did not want this. You don’t have to feel obligated to wed because some Northern lords think you should,” Jon pleaded with her, his face darkening, “I won’t allow it.”_

_“You can’t call your pet dragon to set someone on fire if they upset you,” she teased, and Jon gave her an affronted look. “Oh I know drogon is not yours, but you’re a _Targaryen_ and could command it to. I’ve seen you do it before.”_

_He winced at her words. He did not like to be reminded of his birth name. Of the madness he was capable of when it comes to someone threatening his family._

_“Please don’t leave,” she begged, reaching for his hand and interlinked their hands together, grasping tightly, as if the gesture alone could somehow convince him, “We can do this together. The North deserves a good king.”_

_“Father’s ghost will haunt me for doing this,” Jon shook his head. “I can’t…Sansa, what if one day you live to regret this? You could want to marry again, you might meet someone worthy of that.”_

_“Worthy? Do you truly think you’re unworthy to be my husband? Or a King?” she asked, and she took his silence to mean yes to both. “Then you know nothing. Father once told me he would match me with someone who is brave, gentle and strong. You are all these, Jon.”_

_“…And heirs? You do realize what that means,” Jon asked quietly. “I promised myself I would never hurt you, Sansa. I won’t…do that to you after everything you have suffered.”_

_Sansa knew too well what producing heirs required of her. Better with someone she knew and trusted than risk it would be someone she did not in the future._

_“Women and men have been doing this for ages,” Sansa said evenly, “surely I am not…completely undesirable despite my…lack of – “_

_Jon’s gaze hardened, “What? No, Sansa, that is not what I meant.”_

_Sansa reddened. “We can deal with that part later. Please stay one more day and think it over. Promise me you won't leave without giving me your answer. No sneaking off in the middle of the night.”_

 

_"I promise," Jon said and Sansa smiled at him, and then became aware she was still holding his hand tightly in hers. She realized she did not wish to let go. Jon made no move either, his grasp just as tight. She looked up him and met his heated gaze. She sometimes caught him staring at her in a way she knew it was not how a brother looked a sister but she never dared made a comment, thinking it was her imagination._

 

_She stepped closer and closed her eyes -_

* * *

 

Sansa woke up later than usual that morning, still having a difficult time sleeping ever since that recurring nightmare, and as she rubbed her eyes, she noticed a tray of breakfast on her bedside table. It was still warm, and she thanked the gods whomever had brought it. 

 

She had just finished eating when a loud knock interrupted her thoughts, and a moment later her sister walked in, dressed in her typical winter leather garb.

 

"Good! You're up, finally," Arya said, walking over to the windows and pushing aside the curtains, letting the light in. "I was beginning to wonder if you were going to lock yourself in here. Jon said you did not sleep well last night and needed your rest, but I think he's being too nice. You're the Queen of the North, you can't stay cooped up in here all day."

 

Sansa appreciated her sister's concern, but it was still infuriating how Arya felt she had any right to tell her what to do.

 

"I'm _always_ tired," Sansa bristled. "The maester said I should rest as much as I like."

 

Arya let out an amused laugh. "Don't use that excuse with me. That may work with men, but not me. I see right through you, sister." 

 

Sansa met her sister's gaze and was the first to drop her eyes. Arya pursed her lips, letting out a huff.

 

"So it's been two months and you still don't remember," Arya said, looking dead straight into her eyes and Sansa knew it was not a question. It eerie how very perspective her sister had become.

 

"How else do you expect me to react? You're different," Sansa implored, "everyone and everything is. I keep thinking I'm dreaming."

 

"Do you wish this was a dream?" Arya asked her and Sansa paused, unsure how to answer. "I won't judge you if you say yes. Everyone has left you alone and given you space, because Jon commanded it so. But I can see now that's not helping. Nobody can help you unless you ask."

 

Sansa raised a brow. "Why do I get the feeling you are throwing my own words back at me."

 

Arya grinned, a true smile. "Aye, maybe you _do_ remember some things. When was the last time you've been horseback riding? Fresh air will do you some good."

 

Sansa shook her head, "Not now, Arya. I should not be-"

 

"Please, you know your condition has nothing to do it, stop using that as a crutch," Arya snapped, grasping her by her forearm and pulling her up, and Sansa growled, "Let me go!"

 

"There's my dear sister!" Arya shrieked, and started to laugh to Sansa's annoyance, "now you sound like her. You want to slap me, don't you?"

 

"I would never - " 

 

"You have before. When you're angry, you do this thing with your lips, and clench your hands. Or you use your words, sometimes they wound as much as a sword," Arya said, "people say you look like our lady mother but you're nothing like her, Sansa. Mother told us our duty is always to our family first and foremost. You're moping here isn't very lady-like."

 

_She's taunting you._

 

"And would she be proud of you? You never wanted to be a lady," Sansa snapped.

 

"Aye but at least I'm not skirting my duties," Arya remarked cruelly. "I'm not the queen, I don't have to answer to anyone. Unlike you." 

 

"Maybe I don't want to be queen!" Sansa screamed, pushing her sister's hands off her, "maybe I _want_ to be left alone!"

 

Sansa then did slap her, and the sound resonated loudly in the room, and Ghost growled, wide awake now and coming between the two sisters, baring his fangs at Arya angrily. Arya looked shocked for a second, and she backed away, letting out a maniac laugh. Sansa wildly thought her sister had gone crazy.

 

"Finally," Arya muttered, "the first truthful thing you've said since you woke up. Feels good, doesn't it?"

 

Sansa stared at her, horrified.

 

Arya took her silence as a yes, and said before departing the room, "I'll meet you in the stables shortly."

 

* * *

 Arya had been right; the cold air and being outdoors had helped her mood considerably. They stopped in Winter town, and the barkeep, Sansa noticed, had spent a considerable amount of time talking to her sister as she fetched them their drinks. Arya handed her a warm cup of chocolate when she finally walked back to their seats. Sansa felt very aware much of the patrons were staring at them.

 

"Aye, I suppose they're not used to seeing their queen in an establishment such as this," Arya remarked. "Or maybe because last time I was here, I started a very large brawl and was kicked out for months..."

 

This did not surprise her. Arya always had been feisty and a free-spirit, and a small part of her had always been envious how Arya never cared what others thought of her for it. 

 

"So," Arya began, "if you don't want to be queen, what _do_ you want?" 

 

It was a hard, direct question. Arya never shied away from the hard conversations. 

 

"I don't know," Sansa admitted, taking a sip of her drink, "for everything to be back to normal. I know that's not possible. It's...I never gave much thought to what we would do once we defeated the army of the dead."

 

"So you always thought we'd lose," Arya surmised. 

 

Sansa would never admit that out loud, but she supposed in a way she had. The odds had never been in their favor. Last she remembered, they had very little forces compared to the white walkers and the Lannisters. 

 

"But _you_ survived greater odds before, _you're_ the reason why we took back Winterfell," Arya told her, " _you_ helped _me_ catch Lord Baelish in his schemes, you kept the Northern lords at peace while Jon went away to Dragonstone - "

 

"I know everyone _says_ I have done all these things, but I can't remember them all," Sansa said in frustration, "only that I wanted to take back Winterfell for  _our_ family. Only to find out our own had lied to us. Father lied to us. Bran left us. And Jon..." 

 

 "Jon what?" Arya demanded, "Jon, the one who helped you take back Winterfell when you asked, who helped us save the North and our world from the white walkers? Who has always done whatever you have asked of him?"

 

She flinched at her sister's harsh tone. She hissed out quietly, "Don't turn this against me. I know Jon has sacrificed a lot, yes, but what about my feelings?" 

 

"What feelings?" Arya exclaimed, "you don't tell us anything! You shut us out and expect us to know what you're feeling? Don't tell me you're that dumb. You know exactly what you're doing. You sit there and try to tell me we are not taking your feelings into account but all I can see is a sister who refuses to try."

 

She said nothing, and Arya continued, "I am on your side, you know. Both of yours. We're sisters, and as your sister, I have to tell you when you're being stupid. Trust me, I've told Jon he's an idiot countless times, so don't think I'm singling you out. For the most part you know what you're doing, but Jon, Jon is helpless."

  

It was probably inappropriate to laugh at Arya's bold statement, but she could not help it. Yes, she was very much still aware that Jon still had little knowledge of how politics worked.

 

"Don't shut us out," Arya said, her tone gentler, "we're a pack, and we promised each other we would never not trust each other. I know you don't remember that promise, but know that we're stronger together than we are apart. You're still part of our pack, Sansa. If you want to be, we will always be here. If you want out, then you have to say that too. I'm not going to hold my sister here against her will. But you owe it to us, to tell us. Tell Jon. He deserves it more than I."

 

"What about the baby?" Sansa asked quietly. "What if I don't..." She could not dare say those words out loud.

 

Arya gave her a solemn look. "I can't help you with that, but if you don't want it, Jon and I can take care of it after its born. If that's what you want. I'm not going to force you to be a mother. That's for you to want and you alone."

 

The thought of Jon and Arya raising her child together was unsettling. She felt...jealous. After all, hadn't Arya and Jon always been the close ones growing up? She certainly never would've thought _she_ would have married Jon, cousin or not. Arya though...Jon always got along so perfectly and in sync with Arya.

 

 She knew Arya did not mean in that way, but it felt like it. And she felt herself grow angry.

 

"No, I won't let my baby be raised by anyone else but Jon and me," she decided.

 

Arya smiled into her mug and nodded in agreement.

* * *

 

When they returned, it was way past nightfall and Ser Davos and Jon were waiting for them by the stables. It was the first time Sansa thought Jon did not look happy with her.

 

Arya whispered to her before they got close to be overheard, "Don't worry, he's only mad at me, not you. He's always been protective of you."

 

Though Sansa was more than capable of dismounting a horse and had done it countless times before, Jon rushed over and helped her down, his arms easily lifting her down and settling her back on the ground. For a brief moment as he looked at her, she thought crazily he was going to kiss her right then and there. Then he turned his head and glowered openly at Arya.

 

Arya simply gave a guiltless smile and shrugged. "What? Sansa is the queen and can do whatever she wants. We decided to visit the people, and it brought good morale for them to see their monarch."

 

"In a bar next to the brothel?" Jon asked sharply and Arya quieted. "Oh yes, word does travel fast..."

 

"My lord," Ser Davos interrupted awkwardly. "They are here now and unharmed. I do not think they will repeat it again."

 

Sansa sent him a silent thank you and Arya and Jon exchanged more silent words before Jon turned his attention away from Arya. Without either of them asking, Arya and Ser Davos departed, leaving the two of them alone. It was dark and Sansa could not fully see Jon's exact expression but she could feel the tension between them. He was still upset at her. 

 

"I'm sorry," Sansa said, "We did not think to tell anyone before we left."

 

"You don't have to apologize. Arya's right, you're the queen and you're free to go where you want," Jon told her, and he sounded less upset to her, maybe because Arya was right: Jon seemed incapable to be mad at her, "I am glad to see you're getting along with Arya."

 

"It's strange," Sansa said thoughtfully. "She's very smart, our Arya. She knows how to manipulate people. She certainly did it to me to get me to go out with her."

 

Jon chuckled. "Aye, she is. She'll sneak up on you."

 

Sansa followed him up the path up the stairs, Jon silent beside her, she thought about what her sister had told her. That Jon always had done she had asked of him. 

 

"Jon?" she asked softly once they were inside the castle hallways, and he turned to look at her. 

 

"I had a memory earlier, I think," she started, "it felt so real."

 

"Can you tell me what it was?" Jon asked her.

 

_Her hands fumbled for the opening on his cloak as their lips met. The kiss was soft but demanding. He cupped her face in his hands, as she managed to undo the clasp and started to push the cloak off his shoulders, causing him to stumble backwards slightly. Together they undid the clasp of her own cloak, and when Jon’s mouth fastened to hers, she let him take the lead, her hands fisting in his front, feeling the heat of his body against hers, making her dizzy with -_

 

 "Sansa?"

 

Sansa blinked, realizing Jon, present Jon, was still beside her, waiting for her answer. She wrapped her arms around herself, willing the hot coil in her belly to subside. Jon stepped closer and gently cupped her face, "Are you okay?"

 

She moved away from his touch, shaking her head to clear her head. "I'm fine."

 

 _You shut us out and expect us to know what you're feeling?_ Came Arya's earlier words in her head, and she knew if she looked, she would've seen Jon's dejected look. Arya was right. Telling Jon she was fine when clearly she was not was not fair to him, or herself, for that matter.

 

 _Nothing is going to change for the better if you keep this invisible block between you_ , she told herself. She knew this was not a dream. 

 

It had taken her two months to recognize that look he had given her the first time she had woken up after her fall. The look she could not place on his face then but now she recognized it. 

 

 _Love_ , her mind supplied.  _He’s been looking at you with love_.

 

 "Close your eyes," she said, then added quietly, "please."

 

 Jon gave her a confused look but he did as she asked. She did it quickly, not wanting to give her mind time to change, leaning in, pressing her lips softly against his. It took a moment before he responded to it and kissed her back, letting her control the pace and Sansa kept her eyes shut tightly, trying to will herself to remember all the other times she had done this. The familiarity was there, yes, her body clearly remembered, but her mind did not. She had been avoiding  _this_ , afraid that this would wake her up. Kissing Jon would make this world real. Soon their kiss had deepened, and out of her own volition, her arms encircled around his neck, kissing him fiercely now. His arms wrapped around her, pressing her tight against him. The scruff of his bread scratching her mouth was not unpleasant. She allowed herself to touch him, her hands trailing down his arms and chest.

 

It was incredibly tempting to give into her body's intense reaction to him, but it would not solve the internal battle she still had in her mind. Reluctantly, Sansa stepped back, and took the moment to catch her breath before looking into his eyes. 

 

"That must have been some memory," Jon said, voice low. 

 

Sansa could feel herself flush. "You and I...we were in the study..."

 

Her memory was wicked, she thought. She knew that particular memory was not how babies were made, but it had been fiercely enjoyable. 

 

Comprehension dawned on Jon's face and he let out a quiet laugh, "Yes, you really seem to like that the most."

 

She hushed him, as if she expected someone to appear around the corner and hear such scandalous details of the inappropriate things they did on the table where they both held important meetings.

  

"I'm sorry for being distant," she said. “I'm sorry if I gave the impression I do not want this. I _do_ , I want to want this. I just...it's hard to picture myself having something I never thought I could have? I don't know if that makes sense -"

 

"It does," Jon whispered, "it really does. For months afterwards we both had nightmares, both kept thinking everything we were building was going to fall back to chaos. There are still days when one of us feels that. It's difficult not to. It's apart of us." 

 

"Yes," Sansa breathed, feeling relief she could finally tell him this. "I'm scared, Jon. I'm so scared. I'm scared because everything is wonderful and peaceful and then -"

 

Jon gave her a look that said he understood. He was scared too, she realized. No matter how much she thought he was not. Jon never appeared scared to her. But he was. She felt strange comfort she was not alone.


End file.
